


Dreadful, terrible it

by MaplePaizley



Category: Natasha Pierre and the Great Comet of 1812 - Malloy, Voyná i mir | War and Peace - Leo Tolstoy, War and Peace (TV 2016)
Genre: Abortion, Discussion of Abortion, Gen, Hélène/ Pierre's horrible marriage, Implied Child Abuse, Implied underage pregnancy, Miscarriage, Period Typical Attitudes, Period-Typical Homophobia, Unplanned Pregnancy, referenced infidelity
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-10-25
Updated: 2017-12-19
Packaged: 2019-01-23 02:39:32
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 3
Words: 5,788
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12496736
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/MaplePaizley/pseuds/MaplePaizley
Summary: Companion piece to 'Something base and cringing'Hélène's three pregnancies.





	1. 1802

**Author's Note:**

> Working on 'These empty revels' reminded me how much I adore writing Hélène and gave me this idea that I couldn't leave alone!
> 
> Big thanks to @thewhiskerydragon, who is a fab beta and a fab-er human!

Hélène wrapped her arms around herself, burrowing deeper into her fur. It was the early, early morning- unfortunate but she couldn’t risk anyone catching her- and the sun had yet to make any impact on the frigid morning chill.

 

She wasn’t sure when she had begun to feel that something was deeply, intrinsically wrong. She felt tired all the time, and all of her gowns seemed to cling more tightly to her than ever, but that wasn’t totally unexpected. She had made her debut just a few short months ago, and the constant engagements with rich food and wine were doubtless having an effect on her. She was so occupied that she barely noticed when a month went by without the cramps and loss of appetite that she had experienced since she was thirteen. It wasn’t until she vomited for the third morning in a row that she realized what her body had been trying to tell her. And by then it was too late for her to fix it alone.

 

“You wanted to meet me?” Dolokhov’s hands were shoved in his coat pockets, his dark hair tumbling chaotically over his forehead. He looked handsome, Hélène thought wistfully. The dark kohl he had taken to smearing around his eyes after he had returned from the campaign was odd, but lately, she couldn’t help but find it incredibly attractive.

 

She forced herself to settle her nerves, giving him a blandly sweet smile. “Yes. My apologies for the informality.”

 

Dolokhov snorted. “You’ve rarely been concerned with informalities before, Hélène.”

 

She picked up on the implication in his tone quickly, shooting him a sly grin in return as she remembered frenetically paced nights, evenings where he wouldn’t even wait to unlace her corset, opting instead to pin her against the nearest wall, and languorous mornings spent entwined with each other, spent and satisfied. “I’m afraid that this won’t be that kind of informality, Dolokhov.”

 

“More’s the pity,” Dolokhov remarked casually, leaning against the manse’s gate. “What is this about then?”   
  
“I wished to speak with you before you left again,” Hélène hedged, holding on to the last moments where this could feel like a horrible nightmare.

 

“Clearly,” he said drily.

 

“I think I’m…” Hélène started, unable to force out the word, that ugly word that was making her head spin and bile rise in her throat.

 

Dolokhov raised an eyebrow at her, trying to hide the tiny spark of worry behind his glare. “Well what is it?” he asked impatiently.

 

Hélène gestured to her stomach vaguely; feeling a rush of anxious nausea hit her, the wave so powerful that she could hear her heartbeat in her ears. Dolokhov cocked his head, confused. “Are you sick?”

 

Hélène stared at him for a second in shocked confusion before breaking into nervous giggles that turned hysterical. Dolokhov threw up his hands in the air exasperatedly as she wheezed, nearly bent over from the force of laughing so hard. Oh, it felt _good_ to laugh. It was a brief kiss of freedom, a taste of not having to care, and Hélène held on to the sensation for as long as possible. There were tears in her eyes as she straightened up, wrapping her arms around her aching sides.

 

Dolokhov stepped towards her, no longer trying to conceal his concern. “You’re scaring me, Lelya,” he said. “What’s wrong?”

 

Hélène bit her lip, avoiding his glance. “I’m with child,” she whispered.

 

Dolokhov drew back immediately, horrified. Hélène winced. “Are you sure?”

 

“Of course I’m sure,” she said impatiently.

 

Dolokhov blinked, before steeling his face into stony, duty-bound resolve. “Marry me.”

 

“Are you mad?” Hélène snapped.

 

“No,” Dolokhov said, grimacing. “This is what one does, isn’t it?”

 

“My father will say no,” Hélène reminded him coolly.  

 

“What, am I not good enough for Prince Vasily’s Kuragin pedigree?” Dolokhov growled.

 

Hélène sighed, crossing her arms over her chest. “Fedya, don’t ask questions you don’t want to hear the answers to.”

 

“I know, I know,” he muttered, raking his hands through his hair. “Just let me think for a moment.”

 

“By all means,” she spat. “It isn’t as if I’ve been trying to devise a solution for this problem for the last _week_.”

 

“What about an elopement?” Dolokhov suggested tiredly. “I’ll raise some money with my cards, hire Balaga. We’ll leave Moscow, and get married in some village. By the time your father finds out, he won’t be able to intervene without more scandal.”

 

Hélène smiled sadly, despite the objective seriousness of their situation. Dolokhov, though he hid it behind layers of bluster, could be kind. He was a good friend, forgiving enough of her character to assume that the child was his, despite her own doubts. If she allowed herself to let go of her thoughts of everything she had worked so hard for, the pristine future with some nameless prince or count, his offer was painfully tempting. A partnership with someone she cared for, even respected, although she would rather die than admit that to him. She allowed herself a moment to dream about it. A cabin far from Petersburg and a child with Dolokhov’s thick hair and her eyes…and she would be Hélène Dolokhova, a woman without titles or obligations to her family. At that last thought she had no choice but to discard the entire notion altogether. She had worked too hard, sacrificed too much to throw it away for a stupid oversight and a passingly pleasant fancy. If the years she had been forced to spend away from Anatole meant _nothing_ , what had any of this been for?

 

“Let me give you another scenario. My father takes offence at my abduction and forces Anatole to challenge you to a duel,” she said smoothly. “What then?”

 

Dolokhov cracked a small grin at that, despite himself. “If your father had more sense than pride, he’d have noticed that Anatole’s a terrible shot by now.”

 

“If Anatole had more sense than pride, so would he.”

 

Dolokhov snorted, before sobering quickly as a new thought occurred to him. “Does he know?”

 

Hélène turned away. “No.”

 

“Why?”

 

She swallowed. “Because he would want me to keep it.”

 

Dolokhov’s eyes widened. “Hélène…”

 

“I’ve been through every possibility, Fedya,” she said, cutting him off. “I can’t have it. It would ruin me.”

 

“You can’t, Hélène,” Dolokhov murmured, reaching for her. “This is a monstrous thing to do.”

 

She recoiled away from him. “I don’t care.”

 

“Well you need to,” he growled. “Because this is a decision you can never take back.”   
  
“It’s one I’ve already made.”

 

“You’d kill an innocent?” Dolokhov asked her incredulously. “Your own flesh and blood?”

 

“I’m fixing a regrettable mistake,” Hélène hissed.

 

“Then why tell me at all?” he snarled. “You must have known that I can’t agree to this.”

 

Hélène met his gaze coolly, although not without effort. “I need you to help me get rid of it.”

 

Dolokhov barked out a harsh laugh. “You’re delusional.”

 

“Fedya, dorogój, luchik _,_ _please,_ ” Hélène said desperately. She thought she saw Dolokhov’s face soften a fraction as she used the Russian pet names that he loved, as opposed to the French that she spoke with Anatole. But as soon as she noticed it, it disappeared, and his expression was once again immovably granite.

 

“No,” Dolokhov said firmly. “You can’t ask this of me.”

 

“I can, and I _am_.”

  
Dolokhov shook his head in disgust. “You’re acting like a spoiled little girl, _Princess_.”

 

“Are you worried about what God will think of this?” Hélène asked pointedly. She made herself laugh, sharpening her tone to a cruel barb, the edge of a blade. “He turned his back on you a long time ago, Fedya.”

 

“Stop,” he growled. “You don’t know what you’re saying.”

 

“Sleeping with a woman out of wedlock, lusting after a man, sodomy,” Hélène methodically listed, forcing herself to ignore the pained expression on Dolokhov’s face. “What’s one more sin to you?”

 

Dolokhov stared at her, shocked into silence. “Are you… _threatening_ me?”

 

Hélène took in a breath, steeling herself. This was not a moment for weakness, not when there was so much at stake. “Of course not, Fedya,” she replied, coating her voice in fifty shades of artificial sweetness, “but this is a choice that affects both of us. I would think very carefully about the decision you come to.”

 

“That’s not fair, Hélène,” Dolokhov snapped.

 

“Being fair is a luxury that I can no longer afford,” she said sharply. “I need to know that you’ll help me.”

 

“Fine, dammit all,” Dolokhov spat. “Only because the thought of sharing this with you is _sickening_.”

 

She almost collapsed in relief. “Thank you,” she whispered.

 

“I’ll come by tomorrow,” Dolokhov said numbly. “The apothecary will have something.”   
  
“Alright,” she murmured. She looked at him as a new, horrifying thought occurred to her. “Do you want to…stay for it?”

 

“I don’t want to see your face for a long while,” he said bluntly. “After I find you the medicine, I’m going back to Persia.”

 

Hélène nodded silently. “Very well,” she muttered.

 

Dolokhov shook his head angrily. “This is an evil thing you’re doing, Hélène.”

 

“Spare me the moralizing, Fedya,” she hissed. “It doesn’t suit you.”

 

He crossed his arms, evaluating her coldly. “I suppose I had better leave then. I have nothing left to say to you.”

 

“Fine,” she said blandly. “Safe travels.”

 

He snorted ironically. “And the same to you, I suppose.”

 

He turned on his heel and strode away from her, stopping to slam the gate shut. As soon as he left, Hélène leaned heavily against the side of the house, sucking in deep breaths in an attempt to calm her racing heart. _It’s going to be fine, I’m fine, there’s nothing to worry about,_ she reminded herself. Dolokhov would forgive her eventually, and this would be an unpleasant interlude that she’d forget about in a few years.

 

All the same, she couldn’t help but feel a sickening sense of dread weighing her down, rooted somehow in the parasite that was living inside her. Hélène forced herself to swallow her momentary doubts, and took a few more moments to compose herself before pasting on her most serene smile. She was Hélène Kuragina, she reminded herself, and she would be damned if anything got in the way of what she wanted.

 


	2. 1808

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Hélène's second pregnancy

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you for all the kudos/ wonderful comments people have left! They are incredibly validating and I love hearing people's thoughts! 
> 
> This chapter does contain a relatively graphic description of a late-term miscarriage. It is in the second part of this chapter, after the first cut.

“You’re…pregnant?” Pierre’s eyes were blown wide.

 

Hélène tentatively placed her hand on her stomach, the first time she had allowed herself to take ownership of this _thing_ that was now apparently part of her. It was odd, she mused, to treat this as something that didn’t need to be hidden, something that wasn’t shameful. “Yes”, she murmured.

 

“Oh, Hélène…” Pierre breathed. He reached out and gently placed his hand over hers, intertwining their fingers.

 

Hélène couldn’t help but stiffen at the contact, but forced herself to visibly relax, pasting on a grin. “Are you happy, darling?”

 

“More than I can say,” Pierre smiled, roughly wiping away tears. “We’re going to be _parents_.”

 

Hélène felt her skin prickle uncomfortably at the idea. Her memories of her own mother were few and far between, but not many of them were pleasant. Aline Kuragina had had Anatole’s blonde hair and almost-translucent complexion, but none of his warmth. Hélène understood her mother’s frustrations better now; the pain of marrying someone that you knew you couldn’t love, the expectations that came along with being a woman in their world. The fear she could feel creeping in about what this child meant. She couldn’t imagine Pierre as a father like Vasily, opportunistic and calculating, but she was perfectly cast as an aloof, cold mother like Aline.

 

Pierre’s nervous chuckle snapped her out of her reverie. “What is it?”

 

“I was trying to picture you as a mother,” he confessed bashfully. “It’s harder than I anticipated.”

 

Hélène couldn’t help the surprised, genuine laugh that bubbled out of her at that, despite herself. “I was too.”

 

Pierre squeezed her fingers a little tighter. “Are you scared?”

 

Hélène momentarily considered telling him the truth about her doubts before ultimately discarding the notion. This was just an expectation that she had always been aware of, and it was foolish to dread it this much. Besides, Pierre was incapable of making her feel better regardless. She didn’t see the point in exposing herself, feeling vulnerable in front of him, if she wasn’t gaining anything from it.

 

“Just excited, husband,” she said finally.

 

Pierre gave her a wide grin— he had always believed her so easily— and drew her into a tight embrace, crushing her against him so hard that her feet left the ground. Hélène wrinkled her nose when he couldn’t see her face, biting her lip to stop the grunt of discomfort that came from having the air knocked out of her lungs. She awkwardly clasped her hands behind his neck, dragging her fingers down his chest as he finally set her on the ground. He leaned down and pressed a quick kiss to her lips. “I love you so much,” he murmured softly.

 

Hélène smiled beatifically at him, taking his hand and squeezing it gently in response. She could do this, she thought to herself. Just a few more months and then the baby would be born. Pierre would care for it; he would be obsessed enough with it to leave her be. A few more months and she would be solving two problems at once.

 

\--

 

She woke two months later to a sharp pain burrowing into her slightly rounded abdomen, forcing the air from her lungs. She tried to sit up in bed, but the effort was too much, tearing a single, wordless scream from her lips. She hunched over herself, whimpering, trying desperately to root out and overwhelm the pain, the feeling that something was very, very wrong.

 

Pierre bolted up at her cry, fumbling in the dark for his glasses. “”Hélène? What’s wrong?”

 

She collapsed onto the bed, tossing aimlessly, blindly. She arched her back until she heard it pop, crying in frustration as it did nothing to help.

 

“Hélène…” Pierre murmured, engulfing her in his heavy, suffocating arms. “You have to try to relax….please...think of the baby.”

 

She tried to twist away from him. It was too hot and the pain was too intense, and her only chance to escape it was to writhe, contort herself into something where the pain wouldn’t find her, try to fold in on herself. He only held her tighter against his sweaty chest, whispering sweet nothings that she couldn’t make out into her ear. She sobbed breathlessly at the feeling of being overwhelmed, and thrashed violently. Kicking out, she managed to escape from Pierre, almost tumbling off the bed in the process.

 

She vaguely heard Pierre’s gasp of horror before he was scrambling out of the bed, frantically calling out for someone to find a doctor. She came back to herself enough momentarily, just long enough to see what had made him startle. There was a wet spot on the sheets, staining the crisp white a deep scarlet. Hélène stared down at her legs, noticing absently that they mirrored the sheets with the way the blood was smeared on her skin. She registered Pierre coming in with a maid, the shocked murmuring, and a warm washcloth dabbing at the sweat on her forehead before the world blurred into a fuzzy haze of pain, and she tumbled headfirst into darkness.                        

 

\--

Hélène could not say how long she was asleep for. She woke up in a spare room, one of the nicer ones, in the same wing of the house as the master bedroom. She raked her hand through her hair feeling, with dismay, that it was hopelessly greasy and tangled. She tried to sit up, but abandoned the idea quickly with a hiss of pain. The sharp, crushing agony that she remembered was gone, but there was a lingering, muted ache that seemed to have taken root in her bones.

She was about to fall back into the pillows, grimacing, when she saw a doctor enter the room and take a seat next to her bed, one of the maids trailing nervously behind him.

“Please don’t exert yourself, Countess,” he said, gesturing for the maid to help her lie back down. “You’ve been through quite an ordeal. The Count sends his regrets,” he added hastily, seemingly misinterpreting her anxious expression. “He left early this morning to deal with an urgent matter in the country.”

“What happened?” she demanded. She hated the sound of her voice; it was thin and shrill, panicky and desperate, a far cry from the smooth, controlled tone that she prided herself on.

“Countess Bezukhova…” the doctor began dully. “You lost the child. I’m sorry.”

“What do you mean?” She heard herself ask. _Stupid, stupid, you don’t need him to explain it to you_.

The doctor heaved a long-suffering sigh. “You had a miscarriage, Countess. The child arrived too early and stillborn. He was gone before you gave birth to him.”  

Hélène instinctively scrubbed her face blank, burying everything under a cool façade as she processed what he was saying. “Very well.”

She wasn’t sure that she could call what she was experiencing grief. How could she? She had prepared herself for this child, thought about what it had meant, but she had never claimed to love it the way Pierre did. It felt like something had been taken from her, without her permission.

“There’s something else you should know,” the doctor continued hesitantly. “It’s unlikely that you will ever give birth to a living child. I wish that there was more that I could do.”

\--

They told her later that she had never asked for Pierre. She learned that she had mostly screamed for Anatole when she was feverish and delusional. She had called for Dolokhov, even Ippolit and Papa, but never for her husband. She supposed that was why he had been avoiding her. She couldn’t help but hate him a little bit more for it.

\--

“How can you still be in bed at this hour?” Anatole chided. “It’s a beautiful day out.”

“Go away Anatole,” she groaned, dragging a pillow over her head.

“Come on,” Anatole said cheerfully, plucking it from her grasp. “You and I are going for a walk.”

“I don’t want to.”

“We’ll go down by the river,” he continued blithely, ignoring her. “The Sun’s glistening off of it today, it’s really quite lovely.”

Hélène sighed. “Why are you so set on this?”

“I’m _worried_ about you, Lenka,” Anatole said. She wrinkled her nose at the nickname, one that Anatole only used when he was being serious. Or, alternatively, when he was trying to provoke her sense of nostalgia to get his way.

“Don’t be,” she said with a game smile. “I’m fine.”

Anatole scowled at her, crossing his arms petulantly. “You’re being horribly stubborn.”

Hélène snorted. “Because you’re _never_ stubborn.”

Anatole sat uncertainly at the edge of her bed, crossing his long legs. “It wasn’t your fault, you know,” he said softly.

“I know that,” Hélène muttered. But then again, she didn’t really, did she? It was difficult to forget the last time she had been in this position, almost six years ago. Taking the medicine that Dolokhov had brought had been horrible. The pain had been so intense that it was difficult to think that she _hadn’t_ fundamentally hurt herself in a way that she couldn’t reverse.  

“You and Pierre could always try again,” Anatole reminded her.

“The doctors don’t think so.”

Anatole frowned. “Sometimes doctors are wrong.”

“Pierre doesn’t think so either,” she said quietly.

“Well, Pierre doesn’t know anything,” Anatole said obstinately, and Hélène closed her eyes, cursing her brother’s seemingly eternal state of obliviousness.

“While that’s true,” she said in a measured voice, “he doesn’t want to try again.”

Understanding dawned in Anatole’s eyes, replaced at once with a deep sympathy that she hated. “I’m so sorry, Hélène,” he breathed.

“Don’t be,” Hélène snapped. “I didn’t want this thing to begin with.”

“Well then why are you still in bed?” Hélène opened her mouth to respond, but Anatole gave her a shrewd look, cutting her off. “And don’t say it’s because you’re still hurt. It’s been almost a month, Lena.”

Hélène shot him a frigid glare, meaningfully turning away from him. She felt a warm weight plop down next to her, Anatole gently resting his hand on her shoulder. “Are you upset about Pierre?”

“No.” She had lost the modicum of respect she had had for him when he left, but it wasn’t as if she’d ever cared for him enough to mourn it.

“Then what’s wrong?”

Hélène sighed. How was she supposed to explain any of this to Anatole? She felt… _broken_ somehow, almost like less of a woman. And as soon as that thought came into her head, unbidden, she was forced to accept that she believed everything that she’d previously scoffed at. She had always held onto a firm belief in her own value, her worth as a person, that she could be more than a giggling accessory for a nameless nobleman. The idea that she felt like a failure because she couldn’t have a child rankled her. So did the dizzying array of possibilities that had become limited so quickly. She would never be a presiding society matron, just a pitiably barren wife. She would never take pride in her children’s accomplishments, never sooth them when they wept. She would never know whether or not she could have grown to love her child.

How could she explain the lingering numbness she still felt, the feeling of desolate emptiness? A month ago she could feel movement inside her, something reaching out and touching her. Having that ripped away from her made her feel oddly lonely, even if her companion had been a nuisance. She bit her lip in frustration. It had been much easier to feel nothing towards her son when he had been alive.

“You wouldn’t understand,” she mumbled instead.

Anatole, to his credit, didn’t challenge her. He just lay back against the bedframe, tilting his head towards her expectantly. “I’d like to try.”

Hélène stared at him in disbelief, before throwing her arms around his waist and burying her head in his shoulder. “Thank you,” she murmured. “For wanting to listen.”

“Of course.”

The Kuragins lapsed into a comfortable silence, and Anatole didn’t press the matter further, something that Hélène was immensely grateful for. While he was here, and she could hear his soft breathing, feel his warm weight pressed against her side, she felt safe, far away from the sympathetic clucks and smiles that she knew were waiting for her. 

Hélène, for the first time in many weeks, felt like herself.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you for reading! 
> 
> Big thank you, as always, to @thewhiskerydragon! If you want some cute fluff, we're also co-authoring a piece called 'Either Very Clever or Very Stupid'!


	3. 1812

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Hélène's third pregnancy, 1812

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you so much for all the lovely support! My apologies for the delay in posting this chapter- @thewhiskerydragon (who is an amazing beta/ human) and I are cowriting a long fic (which you should check out!) and it's darn hard to write angst after writing fluff 
> 
> This chapter is made up of different events which take place non-sequentially. Most of them take place during the third pregnancy, but there are flashbacks to Hélène's debut and first pregnancy as well. 
> 
> C/w for abortion mentions/ suicidal thoughts

There was a definite curve to her stomach, a gentle roundness that hadn’t been there before. Hélène skimmed her fingers over it tentatively. She knew that hadn’t been as careful as she should have, but hadn’t she been told that this was impossible?  A petulant kind of irritation overtook her—this was such a stupid mistake, so easily avoidable if the idiot doctor had told her the truth.

After her first wave of frustration came a heady rush of panic. Pierre was away; he had been for months. There was no way that anyone would believe that he had had anything to do with her pregnancy, even if they were miraculously unaware of her marital troubles. Her only hope was to write and ask for a separation. He would do that much for her, surely? She was still young and beautiful, popular and loved. She could find another husband easily, one who wouldn’t turn up his nose at an already-pregnant wife if it meant that he was marrying Hélène Kuragina. Pierre would help her. He must still care for her a little, wouldn’t want to see her unhappy. Besides, with their marriage dissolved, he would be free to pursue the little Rostov girl.

Hélène ran her hand over her belly again, stopping to savour the warmth of her palm, the unexpected firmness of the tiny bump, still imperceptible to everyone except her. An odd burst of affection thrilled through her, directed, against all odds, towards the child growing inside of her. Part of her. 

It felt like potential.

* * *

 

Pierre had not answered any of her letters. He could be dead, but it was equally possible that he had guessed the nature of her situation and was too busy taking delight in her downfall. She wished desperately that he were dead. No one would think twice about a young, wealthy widow remarrying quickly and discreetly.

* * *

 

Her stomach was becoming harder and harder to hide. She had learned to rely on looser dresses and empire waistlines, but soon nothing she did would conceal it. She procrastinated, obsessively wrote Pierre, until the truth of her situation could no longer be put aside. 

She couldn’t keep this child. It was a harsh reality, but she had put too much aside, compromised too many of her values to stumble at such an inconsequential hurdle. If she could only save one of them, she was determined to save herself, and hope to salvage her life out of the ensuing wreckage. Besides,  she was far too pragmatic to willfully ignore what would happen to a bastard born out of adultery. She was really doing it a kindness. 

She found a pharmacist. One who could be discreet. She had grown up since she had relied on Dolokhov to help her.

“Two drops every day,” he told her solemnly. “No more.” 

Hélène sucked in a breath, resisting the urge to scream in frustration. “I need something that will work  _ faster _ . I can’t get married like this.”

The pharmacist evaluated her. “I’m afraid that your… _ condition _ is too advanced for any other treatment.” Hélène bit her lip anxiously, and he attempted to give her a sympathetic smile. “You must be patient and allow nature to take its course, Countess.”

“Very well,” she said, struggling for a detached tone. “Is there anything else I should know?” 

“It will be unpleasant,” he said. “It would be best if you had someone with you.” She closed her eyes in irritation, forcing herself to breathe. People always had a tendency to underestimate her strength, but she was more than capable of handling her affairs by herself. The pharmacist seemingly misinterpreted her silence for confusion, placing a conciliatory hand on her shoulder. “Perhaps the father?” 

Hélène shot him a stoney glare and impatiently shook off his hand. “That won’t be necessary. Thank you for your time.”

“But Countess—”   


“That will be all, thank you.”

“You must be patient,” he said again, tipping his hat. “I’ll come to check on you tomorrow.”

* * *

 

“Here it is.”

She grabbed the medicine as if Dolokhov might try to steal it from her, turning away from him to examine it. It was a murky yellow and it gave off a sharp smell that burned her nostrils.

“Do I have your leave to go?” he spat.

“No, wait,” she said, turning to him.

“Well, what is it?”

“I wish that this wasn’t necessary,” she murmured.  

Dolokhov’s face softened, his eyes entreating. “It doesn’t have to be, Yelena.”

“You know that it is,” she sighed.  “For what it’s worth, I am sorry, truly.”

“Necessary or not, it’s not something that I can forgive.”

She nodded dully. “If I can’t ask for your forgiveness, could I trouble you for your compassion?”

Dolokhov cocked his head, evaluating her with narrowed eyes. “What are you asking me for, Hélène? Haven’t I done enough?”

“I’m so scared,” she said, the words tumbling out of her in a jumbled rush before she could think about them. “I know that you hate me, I know that I’ve been cruel to you, I know that I’ve already asked too much of you, just  _ please _ Fedya, don’t make me do this alone.”

Dolokhov dragged a hand down his face. “I don’t hate you Hélène,” he muttered. “God knows I should, but I don’t.”

“Fedya…”

“Don’t. Please,” he sighed. “I’ll stay.”

“Thank you.” 

“Don’t thank me either,” he said. “Not for agreeing to this.”

She sighed, crossing her arms. “I really am sorry, Fedya.”

“No matter.” He gathered up his coat, striding towards the door. “I’m expected elsewhere tonight, however. I’ll come back tomorrow. Will you be alright?” 

She nodded, absently fiddling with the bottle still in her hands. “I’ll be alright.”

* * *

 

She prowled the halls of the manor restlessly, still wearing the thin white dress that she’d left the house in hours before. The house felt so empty and so dark, and Hélène hugged her arms to herself, desperate to feel some type of warmth, some contact in the impersonal rooms.

The malicious titters and Anna Pavlovna’s cool dismissal rattled around in her mind, no matter how hard she pressed her knuckles into her temples, trying to dislodge the intrusive thoughts.  _ You must leave now, Countess. Really, you ought not to have come at all _ . She was truly ruined, Hélène realized distantly. This was not the same as rumors of an affair, or illicit flirtations. Those were nothing; she had capitalized off of them for much of her adult life. Nor was it a temporary scandal, something for the maids to giggle over in the servant’s quarters like Anatole’s foolish elopement. She could not save herself from this, not now, not when everyone knew.

Everything she had ever worked for was gone, and she had  _ nothing _ . It was such a poignant, overwhelming feeling that she could do nothing but scream until her throat was raw and her sides hurt, scream in the empty ballroom of her cold, unsympathetic house.

She was unaccustomed to be alone. It felt frigid and far too still, almost as if she was sitting at the cusp of a huge upset, just waiting for something momentous to happen. The anticipation for something that would never come gave her anxiety that clawed at her stomach. If she closed her eyes and concentrated, she could almost feel the baby kicking at her, as if it was trying to escape. As if she hadn’t already hurt it with the medicine. Was it already dead, she wondered, or was it simply resigning itself to its fate now?

She gently ran her hand over her stomach and a thrill of horrible, cruel irony ran through her. Not even born yet, and its life was already in disarray. 

Truly its mother’s child.

* * *

 

She stared at the tiny brown bottle sitting innocuously on her dresser among her perfume and jewelry. It was such a tiny thing, for something that could both destroy and save lives. What would happen, she wondered distantly, if she were to uncork it and drain its contents?    

There was some kind of poetic justice, she thought bitterly, in overdosing on an abortifacient. The scandal would be monumental, to say the least. It would not surprise her if she were to be completely obliterated from the family history in its wake. On second thought, she mused, that had never been her father’s style. After all, why erase the shortcomings of a ruined daughter when there was a beautiful corpse to exploit? 

She shuddered at the thought. Not many things frightened her, but death certainly did. It wasn’t the thought of pain that disturbed her. Even the idea of nothingness was vaguely soothing in its surety. The thought of what would happen to her body in the ground, the words old friends and enemies would use to form her legacy, what would happen to her  _ things _ , the items she had used to build a life terrified her to her core. A public miscarriage, she thought desperately, couldn’t possibly be worse than that. The shame would be horrible, unshakable, but there had to be  _ something _ she could salvage of her old life.

* * *

 

“Stand up straight, Elena. Slouching isn’t becoming in a young lady.”

Hélène wordlessly corrected her posture, demurely folding her hands in front of her. “You wished to speak with me, Papa?”

Vasily Kuragin leaned back in his chair, evaluating her. Her features were all his, but thankfully there was enough of her mother in her to temper the sharpness, make it intriguing instead of off-putting. Her debut was sure to be a success; there were already rumors floating around St. Petersburg of young Princess Hélène Kuragina’s beauty and charm, and she was still months away from being formally introduced to society. 

“I’m afraid I’ve done you a disservice, my daughter,” he said coolly. 

“I don’t know what you mean, Papa.”

“You haven’t had enough of a chance to interact with other girls your age. That will change.”

“Is that really necessary?”

“Yes,” he said in a voice that brooked no arguments. “You’ve been spoiled, growing up with your brothers. It’s time you learned to behave as befits a young woman.”

“I know how to behave, Papa—”

“The future of this family is predicated on how you conduct yourself over the next few months,” he said coolly. “I will not leave that up to chance. You will not disgrace our name, or me. Are we understood?”   

She nodded, pasting on a serene smile. “Of course, Papa. I would never want to do anything to shame you.”

* * *

 

Hélène smiled despite herself. It was sad, melancholy, but still a smile. There was no turning back—she would have to be naïve to think that there was any way to pull herself out of her situation. She was dreadfully, horribly, irredeemably ruined. Her father would disown her when he found out, family pride be damned.

There was something remarkably liberating in recklessly freefalling: a moment where she felt like she could fly, even with her heart lodged in her throat. She had always organized her life operating under the delusion of having some control. It had been quantified in small moments in her father’s house—the rare times when she had evaded responsibility, and how she had learned that it was easy to get what you wanted with wide eyes and a soft-spoken voice. Winning Pierre had been another exercise in control. Pitching her voice to be breathy without being shrill, laughing at the right moments, convincing him that he was special, that someone like her would deign to notice him, even without his newfound fortune. But the bottle in her hand gave her a headier rush than any other.

There was something to be said for being memorable, for leaving a lasting impression. Even if it flaunted every convention she had ever learned, she would leave a legacy. And after all, she rationalized, there were far worse fates than being remembered as young, beautiful, and above all, sympathetic. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you all so much for reading! This fic has been one of my faves to write and kudos/ comments mean the world to me!

**Author's Note:**

> Please let me know your thoughts! Comments and kudos legitimately make my entire day!
> 
> Chat with me on tumblr @penguinobserver! I love to scream about Comet, and my box is open for drabble requests!


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